


the many forms of hope

by shadowcat500



Series: Plaguetober 2020 [31]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Ambiguous Slash, Exhaustion, Exile, F/M, First Meetings, Hostage Situations, Hugs, Illnesses, Injury, Injury Recovery, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Meet-Cute, Minor Character Death, Multi, Names, Not Really Character Death, Plague Doctors, Plaguetober 2020, Platonic Cuddling, Preemptive Grief/Mourning, tagging for that anyways tho, theyre assholes its fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27267136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowcat500/pseuds/shadowcat500
Summary: An ending and a beginning for every set of characters I wrote with over Plaguetober.
Series: Plaguetober 2020 [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948417
Kudos: 2





	1. Moving Onwards

**Author's Note:**

> 31/10 Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hardrada and her apprentice discuss things over a brewing potion.

“Hardrada?”

“Yes, my apprentice?”

They're both stooped over the same cauldron of flu medicine, preparing for the coming winter. Hardrada thinks the winter snows will be deeper than usual, and wants to make sure the village is prepared for the inevitable.

“I think I want a name.”

Hardrada supresses the urge to jump in surprise. She knows how many months they’ve gone without a name, saying no whenever she had offered one. “Did you have one in mind?”

“Yes.” They clear their throat. “I’m thinking Asa. It means healer, so I thought it fitting.”

Stars above, she’s going to cry. She clears her throat and blinks back the tears. “Thank you for trusting me, Asa. I’m delighted beyond words to have you as my apprentice, and am certain you’ll make a wonderful doctor when you have progressed past the need for a master.”

Hardrada’s never been the best at reading expressions through the masks those of her profession wear, but she’s certain she sees a smile on Asa’s face.


	2. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cure has been administered, and there's nothing to do but wait.

The hours trickle by like molasses draining from a cup. Each second passing without a change in Rian’s condition ached somewhere deep inside Dahlia’s chest, in a way she couldn’t quite name, so she walked off into the treeline to find some food.

She finds some blackberries, shining jet-black in the depths of a thicket of brambles, but if her gloves can resist burning hot liquid then they can resist some thorns and the berries come off the brambles and into a spare jar in her pocket. Next, meat: hunting was always more Rian’s territory (deep breath in, deep breath out, nothing you can do anymore) and she’s always preferred dried meat to the hassle of finding and dressing down the things, but as a doctor and as a farmer’s daughter she knows the power of a good broth both in times of sickness and of sorrow. She’s halfway through tying a third trap for when they start coming out around sunset when she hears a cry echoing through the forest.

“DAHLIA!”

She takes off for the source, where she knows the others are. Has a group of bandits found them? The cure would be a plenty good resource both to keep and sell. She narrowly dodges a low-hanging branch as she leaps over a root. Wolves? A bear? Not common, especially during the day. Chances are they wouldn’t attack a group, but maybe Rian’s presence as an invalid drew predators here for weak prey. Five thousand disasters run through her mind as she sprints onward, only pausing at the treeline when she sees the small group clustered around their axe-wielding mercenary.

“Dahlia? Kuriko says you-”

It’s only her training as a professional that stops her from hurling herself into Rian’s arms, but she still charges across the clearing to skid to a kneel at his side. “Are you alright? Do you feel dizzy? Tired? Thirsty?”

He chuckles, a little nervously. He hates being the centre of attention, she’s noticed. “I’m fine, just a little bit of an – ow! – a headache, that’s all.”

Kuriko answers, tone picking up the smile that shows wide on her face. “No wonder, you’ve been out two days. We tried to keep you hydrated, but blood loss is a fact of the plague.”

“The plague that you guys just _cured_!” Nimbus’ face is alight with joy, hand wrapped tight around Rian’s wrist as if desperate for the assurance that he’s alive and awake.

Dahlia pauses, mouth open. Her mask is off, has been since they set up camp, and she knows the others can see her unsure expression. They did it. They found a cure.   
They _found_ the _cure_.

A nervous half-giggle, half sob works its way out of her throat and out of her open mouth.

“Uh, Dahlia, are you-”

She cuts off Rian’s questioning by surging forwards to wrap her arms around his (alive, breathing) torso and start sobbing into his shoulder. Unbeknownst to her, he wraps his closest arm around her shoulders in return and holds the other out in invitation for the other two, which they gladly accept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just. I love all my characters. They deserve the world god dammit.


	3. First Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nendril makes it to Northheller Port after his exile, and makes an unusual friend.

Nendril can’t believe he’s made it so far. Fifteen days out from Redleaf, and he’s yet to have lost everything to a cutpurse, be mugged in an alley, or be thrown overboard by pirates. And the ship he managed to catch a ride on has almost made it to port, without a single delay! Things are really looking up, even if “getting kicked out by your family for not inheriting any magical gift” is a pretty low bar to hop for the future.

The ship docks, and Nendril helps moor it since he’s nowhere near strong enough to help carry the cargo ashore. He slips away into the crowd as the ship’s crew begin the carry the crates of Nendril-never-asked ashore. The sea air is bright and refreshing, even though the smell of fish and the noise of hundreds of people is beginning to make his shoulders hunch. Redleaf was never noisy: at least the places the son of a noble was allowed to attend weren’t. 

He pulls the hood of his cloak up before anyone can recognise the tell-tale point of his ears, and starts moving. First on the list is a place to sleep tonight. Any reputable inn will do, preferably a bit inland to get away from the more populated ones. He continues to go through the list as he starts navigating the busy paths of the port to the streets of the main town. Second is to find some robes that will make him actually look like the scholar he’s decided to be, rather than some random person who strolled off one of the ships coming into Northheller Port and decided to pretend to be a scholar. That can be solved pretty easily: Northheller Port is known for its schools, from swordsmanship to medicine to carpentry to magic. He’s an elven noble, even exiled he’ll know enough about something to get into one of them, and with the money he took with him when he got kicked out he should have enough to buy some decent robes from one of the many supply shops scattered around. Though some of it went on the passage here, and more will go on the inn, he should be ok. And he’s stashed in places all over his body, so a cutpurse won’t have him broke if anything happens.

***

The inn he chooses looks strong, built to weather the Northheller storms, and is much quieter than the inns he passed walking past the seafront. The Queen’s Hawk was probably built to house early arrivals to the schools before their housing could be given a week or so before term started. So it’s an atmosphere that suits Nendril just fine.

The room is small, yes, but Nendril doesn’t have much to make room for, and it has a washstand and a desk so he’s covered fine. There was a chalkboard above the bar downstairs saying what was on the menu for dinner that night, and it looked plenty affordable. As expected, really: students never really have that much gold to spare. 

Once he’s acquainted with the room and is certain of how much time he has before the kitchen downstairs starts taking requests for dinner, he heads out again for the second item on his list. He passed half-a-dozen supply shops on this street alone: he’ll find a uniform shop before half-an-hour’s out.

***

The staff is tall and strong, cherry wood with a sleek finish and a hook near the top for a lantern when walking. He’s inside the supply shop and asking the price almost before his brain catches up. It’d be good if he ends up taking to the roads as a traveller, and the staff is the mark of a scholar or doctor anyhow. 

He buys it: fifty gold pieces for craftsmanship of that tier is a bargain, and he finds some clean scholar’s robes, secondhand, in his size, and buys them for only five gold. He comes out with the bag hooked neatly over his shoulder and staff in hand, feeling truly comfortable for the first time since his exile. 

That is, until he walks directly into someone coming his way.

The recoil almost knocks him to the floor: he would be face-first into the cobble feeling sorry for himself if not for a friendly hand grabbing him by the elbow and pulling him up to his feet.

“Sorry! Wasn’t looking where I was going! Are you alright?”

Nendril brushes a lock of freshly shorn hair (custom to cut the hair of exiles short before they go) out of his eyes, and takes in his rescuer. Bluish-black hair and a leather coat are all he can make out before they tilt their head and ask again. 

“Are you alright? Didn’t hit your head?”

“No, I’m- I’m fine, thanks.”

“Are you absolutely sure? I’ve tripped on the cobble enough time to know they bruise like a demon if you fall on them.” 

“You caught me in time, alright? No harm done.”

“Also, your bag almost fell. It didn’t, but your robes are falling out a bit. Might want to put those back, but it’s your call.”

Nendril glances towards the bag and sure enough, a dark-grey sleeve has spilled out from the top. He quickly tucks it back in before it can get dirty. “Oh, thanks.”

“No problem. You’re here to study, right? I’m here for the—oop, sorry—” The other person ducks out of the way of a passer-by. “We should probably move out of the way, wait do you want to be on your way? People normally do.”

Nendril blinks at the fast speech, but registers the question and shakes his head. “I mean, I’d like to be in time to order dinner from where I’m staying, but we can talk on the way there if you haven’t anywhere to be.”

The other student grins, and Nendril gets the feeling he’s in deep already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god I fucking love these two
> 
> fun fact: nendril's surname used to be Golzin
> 
> The "in deep already" could be platonic or a crush-at-first-sight deal, you choose


	4. Success

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob's fears were proven founded, and half the village was sick before the month was out. The pair worked themselves around the clock to try to care for them all, but barely managed it. Luckily one morning, the prophecies finally came true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jacob and Cassandra could VERY easily be interpreted as romantically involved in this, which is why I'm tagging, but they could also be interpreted as instead very good friends, as would be expected of two people who chose to spend their lives together.

The letter detailing the cure had come in at the side of a messenger on horseback, with the trappings of the King himself. The knock had shaken Jacob awake from where he slept at the chair by the desk in the study, and he met Cassandra’s wide eyes behind her lenses with his own as they both half-fell into the hall. Plague victims didn’t come at this hour: they always waited till dawn for the blood to be discovered.

“King’s orders! The cure has been found!”

The dash to the door had been abrupt: from a hurried walk to a full-on sprint in a second. Cassandra matched his pace and they met the messenger’s eyes at the same time as Jacob opened the stiff door.

The messenger passed the small parcel over to Cassandra, and Jacob could see the tell-tale bulge of uneven ingredients roll around as she took it. “What is this?”

“The recipe for the cure. And the rarer ingredients, the poison, the fire-lilies, the coalroot and the swamp-lily seeds. Everything else should be easily available. All the instructions are inside.”

“The- the cure?” Jacob can’t- shouldn’t believe it. Once the first patient had come in sick, half the village followed. He and Cassandra had begun taking half the day each in two hour shifts while the other slept. “I..”

“ _Thank you_. Thank you so much.” Cassandra, though as tired as he is, isn’t currently dragging herself out of sleep and as such is a little quicker on the uptake.

“No problem, doctor.” He gives a saucy wink neither of them are functional enough to respond to, and walks off.

The two stare after him in shock, neither quite able to believe what the little package contained.

***

**Cure for the Blood-Plague**

Whitepoint root (one)  
100ml of bloodfruit juice  
100ml of white wine  
Green moksdine tongue (one, minced)  
Blackfin poison (10ml)  
Fire lily (two whole plants, including roots)  
Coalroot (100g, sliced)  
Blue swamp-lily seed (three, whole)  
Marigold petals (20g)  
Gardenia (five whole flowers)  
Hawthorn (twenty flowers and the attached twigs)

Mix the bloodfruit juice and white wine together in a jar.  
Add the whitepoint root to the jar and leave to soak.  
Make a fire with ash and pine twigs, and set up a cauldron over it.  
Pour 800ml of fresh, clean water (boiled and cooled to remove pathogens) into the cauldron.  
Allow to boil.  
Add the blackfin poison and stir in thoroughly.  
Add: the fire-lilies, the sliced coalroot, two of the swamp-lily seeds, and the marigiold petals.  
Stir ingredients in the pattern of three clockwise and one anti-clockwise. If this is failed at any point the cure will be useless.  
If the correct amount of blackfin poison has been added, the ingredients will have been reduced to nothing in ten repeats of the stirring pattern.  
Add the gardenia flowers and the hawthorn, while continuing to stir in the same pattern.  
The flowers and branch will be reduced to nothing in around two minutes.  
Allow to come to a boil again, and let it boil for five minutes while continuing to stir.  
Add the soaked whitepoint root and the moksdine tongue.  
Stir in the same pattern for eight repeats, then add the swamp-lily seeds and bloodfruit juice.  
Stir thoroughly and allow to boil for ten minutes. Cure should be a pale fawn colour.  
Administer around half a healer’s cupful of the potion orally to the patient.

Patient should awaken from coma in around two hours, and be fully recovered in half a week to a week.  
One full cauldron should be enough for approx. two villages.

***

The pot is bubbling away on the stove, all ingredients mixed in and dissolved to nothing, the warm brown mixture steadily paling to fawn.  
Jacob and Cassandra sit curled around each other in the same chair, both unwilling to relinquish to comfort of each other’s presence after so long deprived of it, even if only by necessity. 

Next to them, a timer goes off with a loud ding, stirring them from the beginnings of a shared doze. It takes a moment for either of them to remember what it’s for, but the moment passes and the two nearly trip over each other in a tangle of limbs and water-treated cloth as they leap out of the chair. A hysterical giggle bubbles out of Cassandra’s throat, matched by the Jacob’s wild breathing as the two stumble to the pot. 

“It’s ready. It’s too late for it not to be.”

Jacob is already pulling out the bottle they were planning to use to carry the cure to the patients in their treatment room. “Half a healer’s cupful per patient. Around half a mouthful.”

“You grab the healer’s cup, I’ll fill the bottle. I’ll meet you in the treatment room.”

Jacob nods and sorts through the disorganised cabinet. (Neither of them had had the time or energy to waste on reorganising the cabinet after it had been run wild by their usage of the contents and lack of time to put them back in order.) Cassandra drowns the bottle in the mixture, air bubbling to the surface as the bottle fills. No time to waste on corking it to prevent spills: she hurries to the treatment room, trying not to trip over her own feet.

Jacob is already there, hunched over their sickest patient by far. Deep into their coma, so far Jacib doubted they’d make it to the cure. “It’s time.” He holds out the cupful, eyes dead on the patient’s sleeping face. Cassandra pours out the cupful, desperately trying to both get the accurate measurement and not spill a drop. Before long she’s done so, and clears her throat to tell Jacob to administer the cure. He does so, and she watches idly as he ensures they swallow. 

Nothing happens, as she expected. Jacob, however, stares fixatedly at their face as if waiting for something, _anything_ to happen. No time to waste doing that. 

She shakes his shoulder. “We have to move on to the others. They’ll wake up or they won’t: only time will tell.”

He sags beneath the weight of her hand, but stands up. Together they move to the next patient.

***

It takes a few hours after the last patient has the cure administered, but for the first time in a month they hear something besides groans of pain and pleas for mercy from the treatment room.

A soft murmur reaches through the walls to where the two doctors are bottling up the potion to send to houses in the village that they know have the plague, and they both spring up at the same instant, grabbing onto each other for support. They hurry to the treatment room, hands still entwined, and hesitantly open it. 

“What happened?”

The patient that Jacob had been so concerned for blinks up at them, leaning against the wall from their makeshift bed. Cassandra sees Jacob’s whole figure cease the slump it had become accustomed to as both he and her whoop for joy at the first patient they have cured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hnnnng… I care them...


	5. Saviour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group is woken early by a bandit attack, from which they are saved by a mystery hero.

Menmak had recovered well from her spell under the curse. Though still largely bedbound, she was well enough to move around her room, though of course with the monk or Lakreko holding her arm. (Fern, the thief and little Esthe were neither of them strong enough to even stand a chance of supporting her.) Fern even had hopes of her being able to wield the immense, sun-blessed greatsword that had been leaned against the wall of her room. The thing was wider and taller then they were: no chance the paladin would go any further than gripping the handle in some sacred promise to herself that she would wield it again while Fern awkwardly stood by the bed, at least not any time soon.

Of course, because as Fern has observed from their century or so spent trapped in a witch-cursed grove with a decaying corpse (that was _not_ a pleasant time when they found that out), the universe absolutely _hates_ them.

The bandits come at the first rays of dawn, as the golden sun begins its daily trek.

“Come out, and we won’t hurt you.” The threat has Fern rolling their eyes from their bed, certain in the knowledge that Anka and Lakreko alone could take a dozen of these foozlers.

A different voice chimes in, no less sleazy. “Or this little lady we found outside. C’mon, what kind of person lets a little kid get hurt?”

That part has Fern leaping from beneath the covers and dressing faster than any time they have before in their life, moon-white mask and thick coat and all. Intimidation would be key here, they know well that the mask they don to prevent harm to themselves is more than a little unnerving.

They scurry downstairs seconds behind the other three functional members of the house, though of course they pop their head into Menmak’s room on the way past, assuring themselves that she still lies asleep. 

They emerge out onto the road, where a group of bandits, Fern would say fifteen to twenty strong, stands with a knife to Esthe’s throat. They’re certain she must be drugged, her god would never fail to defend her unless their defence would risk her life or soul. 

Lakreko is the one to speak. “What are your demands?”

The man holding the blade to Esthe’s throat chuckles, and Fern despises him on principle. They hope he is left alive so they can test a few poisons out on his miserable body. “We want you to turn over all the valuables on your person and in that house, or we’ll be taking her life instead.”

The thief, Cenki, tries to buy them some time. “Who’s she? I’ve never seen her in my life.”

“Well,” He readjusts the grip on Esthe’s hair and holds the knife closer to her neck. “In that case you’ll have no problem with us slitting her throat.”

The full-body tense as a drip of blood pools along the surface of the knife gives the man all the answer he needs, though it may not be from the source he believes it is. (Fern is no fool, and has seen the thief chasing rats in the basement long enough to know what he is. The have no real qualms with it, as long as the blood-drinking is from a healthy willing or non-sentient source.) 

Suddenly, a crash sounds from behind the house, like the sound of a small piano being dropped from a first-storey window, though of course without the sounds of discordant notes and smashing keys, sending a flinch through every person in the vicinity. 

“What the hell was that?”

Lakreko quickly assures the bandits that no one else was in the house, and they all shuffle uncomfortably as the man that Fern assumes to be their chief mutters to himself.

“Alright, you three!” He gestures to three nameless leather-geared people in cloth bandannas. “Go check it out, the rest of us will stay here. Go!” With that, the three bandits go scurrying off around the house it the backyard. Fern hopes they won’t trample the vegetables.

A few seconds after that comes the sound of metal clashing against metal, and then the slow, slow scrape of a sword through gravel. The bandits facing that side of the house go chalk pale, and Fern knows plenty why: they’d be scared shitless if they saw what is approaching.

Menmak emerges from beside the house, form withered from her weeks of sickness but still muscular and tall enough to wield her sword, even if right now she drags it behind her like a farmer ploughing a field. Scarlet blood drips from the wide blade. Sunlight paints hr hair gold, and the inhuman glow to her eyes gives Fern no doubts of her status.

“Return the girl.” echoes the voice of the sun and the voice of one of its champions, reverberating against the hills and the very ground.

The bandits are quaking in their boots, and at least one drops their weapon and makes for the hills. Fern would bet that the others are too frozen in fear to even walk. The bandit leader thinks for a second before dropping the knife, picking up their priest and tossing her towards them. The moment he does, there’s a flash of light and suddenly Menmak is amongst the bandits, blade wet with fresh life-blood with his head gripped by their hair in her hand.

Fern ignores what happens next (probably a lot of fleeing, from the sounds of metal and shrieking) to focus on Esthe. Anka caught her, and has cut free her hands and feet.

“Little Esthe!” They carefully examine her throat and wrists, but any damage is superficial and will heal before the week is gone. “No harm done, little priest. No worries to be had.” All the same, they squeeze her hand tight before hurrying off to check on their paladin.  
Menmak is holding herself up with the strength of her blade, swaying dangerously as she watches the last of the survivors flee over the crest of the hill and disappear. 

“Menmak?”

She sways to the left and falls, Fern only able to catch her head from smashing into the floor even as her blade smacks into their shoulder before rolling off and clattering to the floor behind them. That gonna leave a bruise, they think as they examine Menmak for injuries. Nothing more than a case of pushing herself too far while already weakened: probably only keeping herself up through strength of will and the sun’s influence. Foolish woman. Brave, but foolish. 

Fern respects her and her love for her family more than words can say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are done! Thank you all for being with me throughout this month! Next up: NaNoWriMo, which I won't be posting here in case I want to publish the result. Progress reports will be going on my tumblr writing tag, which there is a link to below.
> 
> Foozlers was actual Victorian slang. Look it up!
> 
> Check out my [ tumblr](https://existentialcrisisetcetera.tumblr.com/tagged/zach%20writes)!
> 
> Comments and kudos appreciated!
> 
> Have a wonderful and extremely spooky Halloween!

**Author's Note:**

> we got one for every character/pair of characters lads


End file.
